


no masters or kings

by silverfoxflower



Category: Black Widow (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Bodyguard, F/M, Russian Mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 19:29:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3145916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxflower/pseuds/silverfoxflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky used to be a dog. A dog of the Bratva, half out of his mind with the drugs they pumped into him, kept alive for his skill in violence and bloodlust. He spent years like that, blacking out for hours and days, unable to even remember his own name. Waking up in empty bunkers and leaky basements. Back rooms of gambling dens. Always, with blood under his fingernails and grit in his teeth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no masters or kings

**Author's Note:**

> Title from that popular Hozier song. Part of a fic/art trade with the amazing belligerentbagel, which you can see [here](http://actualmenacebuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/97424356262/sketch-by-the-amazing-belligerentbagel-for-our).

He takes the leather into his mouth and bites down, yanking it upwards to tighten the strap. Across the street, through the city-silver reflection on the hotel room window, Natalia’s hair blazes red as she sits at the table in the middle of the room and speaks. Clear and cool and indecipherable through the glass and distance that separates them. The men with guns around her laugh. The man across the table in the nice suit does not laugh.

Bucky flexes his hand and wrist, testing the leather brace. His forearm has been craving the support since he snapped it in an ugly way last month, struggling out of the Dnieper River. He slides a knife into the side of each of his gauntlets, feeling them catch and fit like some filthy love song.

The man in the suit is yelling now, _his_ men with guns bristling as Natasha’s men bristle back and she’s still a pillar of ice in the middle, the whirr of activity around her slowing as Bucky looks through the scope of his rifle.

_Only if it goes bad_ , she’d told him last night, sweeping her hair off of her shoulder, revealing the soft vulnerability of her nape, the sleek line of her naked back.

Bucky hadn't known what she wanted to hear. It always looks bad to him.

Natalia’s buttoned up to her chin, her sleek hair pulled back in a straight line down her back, her white coat stiff and glowing under the reflection of the hotel light as she places one hand, and then another flat on the table.

Bucky takes the shot before the man in the suit can even reach for his gun. Blood spurts from his forehead like a ribbon as he falls down. His men jump away in surprise, whipping out their pistols

Natalia’s men are faster. She doesn't even deign to flinch as her white coat is splattered with red.

When it’s all over, she turns and glances out the window, right at Bucky’s position across the street. Her eyes unerringly seek his, even though there’s no way she can see him through the darkness. He feels it like a kiss on his heart. 

—

Seven years ago, Natalia walked out of a room where the last of the Mikhailov family had been blown wide, rib cages cracked open heaven-wise, holes through their heads large enough to fit your fist through. The very next day, she declared control over the Solntsevo district. No one who saw her afterwards dared to confess that her fingers trembled as she lit her first cigarette as Pakhan.

Her kills have never been quite as gruesome since. The message had been received, loud and clear. 

Since then, everyone who had known Natalia’s past before she assumed control disappeared one by one. Everyone except Bucky.

There were rumors, of course. One simply does not get to be a woman in her position without the usual ugly talk. She was a mistress, she was a whore. She once slit a man’s throat mid-coitus, bled him dry as he spent his death throes atop her.

Ugly talk. Quiet talk.

—

She has a map spread out before her, stubbing out cigarettes on the street corners in some methodical pattern, blowing away the smoke through the corner of her mouth. Bucky pads across the hotel room carpet, naked except the towel around his waist as he peels an orange in one, long strip.

"Have you eaten?" Bucky asks, eyes flickering disinterestedly over the map.

"I’ve been smoking," Natalia says, but she opens her mouth when Bucky presents a slice of orange, glancing up at him with dark eyes as he presses it between her lips.

He watches her chew and swallow, tongue flicking out to catch the stray drop on her bottom lip. Her hair is wet, her robe gaping open. Bucky brazenly traces the curve of her exposed breasts with his eyes.

"Anyone can grab territory through war," Natalia says, opening a new pack and sliding an unlit cigarette through and through her fingers as she looks thoughtfully at her work. "But it’s a real victory to expand under the guise of peace."

Bucky makes a quiet sound as he eases into a sitting position at Natalia's feet, pressing a kiss to her smooth knee. “Just say the word, and we will execute. Whether you lead us in war or peace.”

He can’t see her smile, but he imagines it as her fingers slide through his damp hair, tugging once, sharply, then stroking it tame.

—

Within six months, Natalia had tripled the Bratva’s revenue and increased their holdings by half, including the much-coveted St. Petersburg port area.

First, she reformed their prostitution business. Released women who were extorted against their will, offered protections and increased percentages for those who chose to stay. Punished ruthlessly all those who dared lay abuse upon on them.

Second, she cleaned up their drug and arms trade. Insured that nothing but the highest quality of both passed through her men’s hands. Made herself a brand name among the wealthy and disenchanted, she who could mingle easily with the thick politicians and their platinum-haired wives. Under the table, money exchanged hands. Above the table, promises. 

She was ruthless, but fair. Loyalty was rewarded. Betrayal was punished. She would never be beloved, but she would be respected. And feared. 

—

She sinks onto him in the grey of twilight, her body tight and desperate. They’re freshly showered, fresh from the kill, the adrenaline still pumping through their blood as she bites the moans from his mouth, thighs flexing bruise-tight around his waist. He holds her by the hip, one hand at her nape, feeling wild with the need of her, the scent of her. 

He rolls her down and she twist herself atop again, greedily taking her own pleasure as she puts a warning hand at his throat. 

He goes suppliant. Submissive. His slick-pink mouth opened in weak breaths as his cock is clenched and sucked into her tight cunt. Everything he has, _everything_. He gives to her. 

—

Bucky used to be a dog. A dog of the Bratva, half out of his mind with the drugs they pumped into him, kept alive for his skill in violence and bloodlust. He spent years like that, blacking out for hours and days, unable to even remember his own name. Waking up in empty bunkers and leaky basements. Back rooms of gambling dens. Always, with blood under his fingernails and grit in his teeth.

In his rare moments of coherency, Bucky would be horrified at what he’d done. He tried to escape, many times, but the withdrawal twisted his guts and he was easily collected, if he wasn't the one that went crawling back. 

Their hold on him was tighter than a metal chain, tighter than a leash. 

—

It’s been three long days and three longer nights since Natalia flew to some undisclosed location on business. Bucky is her _Sovietnik_ , but to the Brigadiers he’s frightening, unapproachable. He leaves the petty in-house politics to the man directly underneath him and spends good time pining for Natalia. Occasionally, he makes an appearance at their various operation centers to put the fear of god into the men. 

Natalia had made him promise to leave the house while she is gone so he does. He goes to a small cafe a block away from their apartment and sits and orders a coffee and reads the paper. Although Bucky is well dressed and well groomed - his hair pulled neatly back into a ponytail, his suit bespoke and personally selected by Natalia - everyone in the cafe goes still and quiet in fear of him. This cafe might be too near to their territory, Bucky decides. Maybe they won’t know his face in Siberia. 

He’s halfway through his coffee and starting on World News when he hears the creak of a chair and feels slim ankles knocking into his own. Bucky lowers his newspaper slowly, unable to help the smile that spreads over his face when he finds Natalia sitting across the table. 

"You’re back early," he says, as Natalia’s men shoo away nearby customers and take their places. 

"I found something," Natalia says. Bucky doesn’t know what to make of it when she pulls a manila folder from her purse and slowly slides it across the table to him. He looks down, something ominous roiling in the bottom of his gut. Natalia is as nervous as he has ever seen her, which is to say not at all, not outwardly. She’s tapping the fingers of one hand on the edge of the table in a sporadic, rhythm and she’s blinking too much as she holds his gaze. "I know we’ve talked about looking into your past …" 

"You talked about it," Bucky swallows thickly. "I said that I didn’t want anything to do with it." 

"I didn’t seek this out purposefully," Natasha says, her mouth pressed thin. "It was … offered to me. I thought I would give you the choice." 

"Did you look at it?" Bucky asks, quiet. 

"I wouldn’t,” Natasha says tightly, as the nervous waitress sidles over to take her order. 

—

The men said,

“Fetch, dog.” 

and laughed, their guns slung across their shoulders and their hands rough on his shoulders. 

Bucky was wearing the muzzle. He hated the muzzle, it felt wet when he breathed and rubbed sores on his mouth and chin. He must have done something bad last time to deserve it. 

He was groggy when they dragged him into the narrow hallway, but the injection at his neck made his heart start to pound, cleared his eyes and made his mind snap to attention. 

Find. Track. _Kill_. 

The weight of the gun at his hip was familiar. The knives he slid into his boots and leather braces. There was a certain element of fear that went into his armor. He was, after all, the dog of the Bratva, the soldier of the Bratva. The mere whisper of his name should be a knife of fear in the hearts of the weak. 

Bucky just wanted to take the muzzle off. 

They didn’t bother to follow him. His mission was given and in three days, the drugs would be burned from his system. Then, success or failure, he’d be forced to return. 

It took him all three of those days to track her, she’d hidden her tracks so well. By the time Bucky finally had her cornered and the gun aimed at her neck, the tremors had already started. 

"You’re not well." was the first thing she said to him, looking remarkably unconcerned for someone who was about to have her ribcage blown open. She took a step forward and he waved the gun menacingly at her, battling a wave of nausea. He needed his fix. And soon. 

"Stop talking. Wait here." He forced out, the muzzle obstructing his speech. "They’ll come get you soon." 

"I’d rather not," she said, jerking up her knee. Bucky’s gun smacked against the far wall and he had to duck to avoid her roundhouse kick. He rushed forward to tackle her instead, but she was wily, quick. Slammed her heel in his face and slithered away. 

He managed to grab her ankle, twisting it until she screamed. She scrabbled for a loose brick and launched it at his head but the pain made her clumsy. It skidded on the wall instead, clipping the side of Bucky’s thigh briefly. 

Bucky staggered to his feet and he dragged her with him, shoving her into the wall with a hand at her throat. 

Her pulse under his fingers felt like the fluttering wings of a hummingbird. She was bleeding, a slow, sluggish ooze from her nose, running across her upper lip and down to her chin. When she smiled, her teeth were stained red. 

"You don’t want to do this," she said slowly. And she met his eyes. Stared him down, in fact, this delicate girl with big green eyes and smudged kohl making her lashes stick together. 

"You’re right." he said, without releasing the pressure on her throat. "I don’t." 

"So don’t." There was something that flickered in her expression. Bucky was familiar with pity, he was familiar with disgust and fear. This was none of that. She looked at him like she _understood_ , that in some other world they were wounded animals who could find each other and curl close to lick their wounds. “I can help you.” She said, like it was the only truth she’d ever let pass her lips. “I will come back for you.” 

_She wouldn’t_ , Bucky’s mind told him. She was the mission, and the mission was simple. In an apartment above them came the sound of shattering glass and shouting. On the road, a car revved by, its engine loud in the still night. They were coming. They were coming. 

The most Bucky could’ve done for her was to finish it. Put his hands around her pale throat and squeeze till he crushed her larynx. Or pulled his gun from his holster and put a bullet in her heart, quick and sweet. A mercy he’d extended to a few that he hadn’t wanted _them_ to get a hold of. 

Instead, he took a step back. 

Or maybe he stumbled, his head starting to pound and his mouth going dry. 

She didn’t hesitate, pulling the knife from his hip and sticking it into his gut. 

Bucky fell on the cold, wet ground, listening to the sound of her footsteps as she ran away. 

—

They lose Isaiah. 

He had been at a wine shop, of all places, choosing a bottle of merlot for his dinner. When they find him, they can’t tell how much of the splatter is his blood, and how much is the wine he’d been holding in his hands. 

It’s a very visceral, very public message. 

Bucky finds Natalia sitting at their small dining room table, staring at the window. Through their gauzy curtains, the city below is reduced to grey outlines, lit by a hazy sun. She is pale, her lips pressed tightly together. 

He pulls up a chair and sits next to her, pulling her cold hands between his own. Isaiah was her confidant, her lawyer. Bucky never knew Isaiah as well as Natalia did, but he can mourn on her behalf. He knows how few people Natalia _has_ , so few she can count them on the fingers of one hand. 

Slowly, he tugs her forward, pressing her face into his shoulder. Natalia remains tense for a few minutes, then releases a long sigh, shuddering into his warmth. She doesn’t cry, not really. But she holds him like she’s afraid of being swept away. 

This is the Natalia that the footsoldiers would never know, that the Bratva will never take from Bucky. They think of her as some ice queen with a frozen heart, but the truth is that she feels. Deeply. For the few, few people she has to care about in this world.

"You haven’t looked at the file," Her voice is thick as she pulls away to shakily reach for her cigarettes. 

Bucky takes a short breath. “I haven’t wanted to,” he says. “Sometimes you don’t want to tug on that thread.” 

Natalia smiles crookedly, sticking a cigarette between her lips without lighting it. Bucky’s been subtly hinting at her to quit, though she still seems attached to the feel of the sticks between her fingers. 

"Are you quoting me?" she asks. 

"Do you _want_ me to look at it?" he asks tiredly. If she says yes, he will. He’ll give her the file if she wants it. It’s sitting in the back of the wall safe right now, underneath their fake passports, stacks of cash and the books for their handful of gambling dens. Physically removed, but Bucky feels the truths in it burning through the metal wall. 

"What if you have a wife? A child?" Natalia asks, her fingers slipping from his. "What if you had a life before all of this?" 

" _Do you want me to look at it?_ " he asks again, more urgently. 

For once, Natalia can’t seem to meet his eyes. “No,” she says finally. Quietly. “But you should.” She stands and walks out of the room, leaving him sitting in the dark. 

—

She came back for him. 

Bucky opened his eyes and thought she was an angel, maybe, standing at the door of the dingy apartment bathroom in a white peacoat, surveying everything with a vaguely disgusted expression. At her feet, still choking on his last breaths, was the man who’d handcuffed Bucky’s wrist to the exposed metal pipe three days ago in order for him to detox from his last hit enough to be useful. 

Bucky was unkempt, sour-smelling. Still reeling from the poison in his veins. He almost begged her to kill him, but instead she knelt down on the grimy bathroom floor and took his head between her cool hands. 

"I have men," she said, "But I need loyalty. Will you come with me?" 

His tongue was so thick in his mouth he didn't trust himself to speak, but he smiled. Because she was beautiful, in the light. Because there was a spray of blood on the shoulder of her coat, so stark against the white. 

\--

And the bible never told a story such as theirs. 

—

By the end of the next day, the men who shot Isaiah are dead, their body parts strewn across the entrance of their employer’s headquarters, their bloody heads wrapped up in butcher paper and left on the doorstep. 

By the end of the week, Natalia has broken up a powerful crime family, half on the run and half lying in cold slabs in the St. Petersburg General Hospital morgue. 

She’s in their headquarters now, toasting her officers with expensive vodka, doling out their rewards in money and territory. They might never love her, they might _never_ love her, but they fear and respect her. And her vodka is as strong as any man’s. 

Bucky’s sitting in their apartment at their dining room table by the window, the folder lying, unopened, between his hands. He knows, from the bottom of his gut, that whatever is inside will shake his fragile little world from its foundation. He’s tempted to take the the lighter to a corner and let it burn, unseen. 

Pandora’s box, Eve’s apple. 

Bucky slides his finger underneath the manila flap, and takes a deep breath.


End file.
